Beneath Your Beautiful
by ceruleanblues
Summary: AU. I don't know who she is. Heck, I don't even know her name. But in this time and place, nothing else seems to matter.


**A/N: **So I kind of wrote this oneshot while I was away on vacation last week. It's been a mess at work, and I decided I needed a short break. Did this on the plane with the song on repeat. There's no solid plot, though I suppose it does have potential for something more, but I'm going to leave this here.

Enjoy!

xXx  
CeruleanBlues

* * *

**Beneath Your Beautiful**

_**Him**_

I don't think I'll ever understand how I find myself here in the bar of a swanky hotel downtown because quite frankly, I can't afford the wallet-busting prices. So why the hell am I even fooling myself into thinking one single drink wouldn't hurt anything?

Because I'm a fucking idiot, that's why.

The lulling jazz music makes for the perfect soundtrack to my miserable evening, as if Mercedes Jones—my high school girlfriend of two youthfully long years—dumping my ass earlier on isn't tragic enough. One might think I'm a masochist—a sadist, even—but drowning my sorrows where hedonists sway to the crooning of Michael Bublé is actually the best way to forget that my heartache still lingers. Doesn't mean that I fit in, though. With my shabby blazer, work slacks and worn-out canvas shoes, I'm barely even qualified as a doorman.

"You okay, there, buddy?"

Puck—or at least that is what's stated on his nametag—is a bartender, and I swear his Mohawk looks like a loan out of _The Last of the Mohicans_, but he's the only one who isn't leering at me with disdain; just genuine curiosity.

"Yeah, it's been a long week," I heave a tired sigh.

He snorts a laugh. "Tell me about it. I've been covering full shifts because everybody's having the flu or another."

"Bummer."

"Well, you know how it goes when you're short on staff and…"

Something over my shoulder stupefies him and he trails off; the hand that had been drying a wine glass freezes as he stares, utterly transfixed all of a sudden. And then I notice the shift in the air—a certain presence that shouts and whispers to me all at the same time—and I swivel around in my seat.

Immediately, my gaze lands on her, and sweet Jesus, I don't think I've ever seen such beauty—such elegance—before.

She enters the room—walking, sauntering; no, floating—and I reckon if she wants to, she can have the entire universe in the palm of her hand. Everything else fades away, warped into a mash-up of ringing silence.

Exquisite and exotic.

The effect this woman has on me is befuddling—it's unlike anything before—igniting a raging fire from the abyss swirling in my soul.

Is that even possible?

I feel like I know her—a quintessential piece in my life that I've only recently rediscovered after decades of endless searching—and damn, I never wanted to believe in the bullshit known as 'love at first sight' but she's starting to prove me wrong.

Yet, I don't even know her name.

**You tell all the boys "No"  
****Makes you feel good, yeah.  
****I know you're out of my league  
****But that won't scare me away, oh, no**

It probably doesn't matter anyway. A woman that stunning wouldn't even bat an eyelash at me—the loser drinking all by his pathetic lonesome on a Friday night like a product out of a sell-out catalogue. Heck, I wouldn't even notice me, let alone check myself out, so that's saying something, especially with my less-than-expensive haircut. At the risk of sounding like a prejudiced and bitter man, I can bet my non-existent life savings that she's probably here on a date with her lawyer boyfriend—perhaps that peppy Harvard-educated jerk sitting at the corner—the one shamelessly gawking her with those exceptionally whitened teeth and too much hair gel.

Lucky son of a bitch.

To avoid further wallowing in self-hatred, I swipe the mug up and tip it to my lips, draining the rest of my beer in three gulps before slapping a couple of dollar bills on the counter, enough to leave a generous tip for Puck. My obligatory, fancy red solo done, I suppose it's time to move the pity party onto the comforts of my couch.

"Night, Puck," I call out to my newest acquaintance, giving two punctuated raps on the polished oak surface when he nods in acknowledgment.

"Leaving so soon?"

My neck snaps around so fast, my head suffers from a splitting whiplash, and in that blink of a second, my eyes are bombarded with stars. The momentary dizziness—coupled with my slight inebriation—however, disappears the instant my vision focuses on her gorgeous angel-carved face, trapping the breath in my chest. Soft blonde tresses tumble down her delicate shoulders in cascading waves, perfectly framing her doe-like features. The corner of her luscious lips turns up in an impish grin, and never have I come across a woman quite like her before. The good Lord did a great number with this fine ethereal specimen, but it's her hazel eyes though—rimmed with a blazing green—that knocks me completely off my feet.

Is this deity seriously talking to me?

"Sorry?" I all but manage to whisper.

She casually gestures to the empty glass still perched on the bar top and says, "Care to join me? I could use some good company, and you don't look too dangerous."

Far from it, actually. I'd hide her away ten feet below if it means I'll be able to keep her safe from the world. A gift so precious to men should only be treasured as such.

"Sure."

"I'll even let you buy me a drink," she winks coquettishly, and I pray that she doesn't hear my loud, accelerated heartbeats.

A sense of humor; that's something I can fully appreciate, since my history is one big joke, anyway. Wishfully thinking, perhaps she'll view my socially handicapped self with terms of endearment—more funny than weird—and perhaps stick around long enough to realize I'm not such a failure to mankind.

"Hi, sweetheart, what can I get for you?" Puck steps in then to do his job, though his tone drips with lewd seduction meant only for strippers and professions alike. Undoubtedly, it's not the way to address a woman, and I wonder if he'll get fired if I file a complaint—in my forty-dollar get-up, no less—on flirting with the customers. Oblivious to his rude behavior, he leans forward and props his elbows on the divider that separates him and the mortal Goddess, completely intruding on her personal space.

"Scotch."

"Really?"

Her voluminous lashes flutter into narrowed slits as she pierces a glare through his skull. "Is there a problem?"

She's feisty, too, and obviously doesn't take shit from a man. I admire that; nothing is sexier than a lady in command—one who knows exactly what she wants and gets it—to send unmistakable stirrings down in my crotch.

"No—no," he reels back, blinking rapidly at the mental slap to his male ego. "No problem at all."

"Make that two," I chime in to avoid looking like a damn pussy nursing another round of draft from the tap.

She slides gracefully into the vacant stool to my right, and the way her black chiffon dress rides up to expose more of her toned legs makes not ogling them almost impossible. I don't want her thinking I'm just another perverted creep—even though it should be illegal to look that insatiable—so instead, I avert my gaze to stare at the amazing workmanship and lacquering techniques on the bar top while desperately raking my brains for a witty conversation starter.

**You've carried on so long,  
****You couldn't stop if you tried it.  
****You've built your wall so high  
****That no one could climb it,  
****But I'm gonna try.**

Puck returns with our orders, but promptly makes himself scarce, still licking his wounded pride as he fusses about with the liquor bottles on the shelf.

"God, what a fucking pig," she murmurs, more to herself than for my benefit. The expletive rolls off her tongue like rich velvet, like a word only uttered in the confines of a bedroom, in the throes of passion.

An involuntary chuckle escapes my mouth. "He can't help himself sometimes. It's not his fault."

She tilts her head to the side and regards me closely. "You have a name?"

"Sam Evans," I reply, extending my hand out for her to shake, and her skin feels like silk against my rough guitar-plucking one. "What's yours?"

"Well, wouldn't you like to know?"

Her bearing grows coy, and she's tugging on my chains, luring me into the closed trap that I would so willingly jump into, no questions asked.

"I told you mine," I counter, arching an eyebrow.

"I asked if you had one, never wanted to know what it is," she smirks, albeit playfully.

Damn, she's good.

From the distance, I hear Puck's light snickering at my expense, and embarrassingly, the heat rises in my cheeks like a darn schoolboy instead of a full-grown twenty-three-year-old that I actually am. God, if I survive this night, it'll be akin to cheating death, for she seems to know everything it takes to kill me.

"Tough break-up?" she asks.

"Is that another trick question?"

Her dazzling smile widens considerably but gives nothing away as she angles her body to properly face me. "You learn fast."

On the contrary.

"I'm barely keeping up."

Swirling the dark liquid around in the cheap crystal knock-off, she allows for the ice cubes to mingle with the alcohol for a bit before taking a delicate sip. It's possibly the most innocently sensual thing on the planet, and my eyes automatically zero in on her kissable lips, but a jarring discoloration on her wrist catches my attention instead.

"Nice tat," I comment.

"Thanks."

"Why a bird?"

There's a flicker of emotion that passes through her angelic features, tainting the otherwise flawlessness for a fleeting moment. "It's a dove, actually," she explains, holding it out to allow myself a better view. "I got it to hide my scars."

I squint down at the design work—an immaculate line art spanning across the underside of her wrist, its wings spread wide in mid-flight—trying to identify anything that's even marginally a blemish on her milky flesh, but the artist had done a great job. Anything she had wanted to conceal is cleverly veiled in black, leaving me with only one effective method of unraveling that intriguing mystery.

With a burst of courage—one that I'm attributing to the scotch—I dart my eyes back up to her sweet profile, silently asking for permission, and pleasantly surprised when she gives a tiny nod. Heart pounding a mile a minute, I gently caress her tattoo with my fingers, the pads barely brushing against the slightly raised cicatrix—the flaw amongst the perfection. A jolt of electricity zaps through my entire body just from that point of contact alone, and somewhere in my ear; I hear a sharp intake of air.

**Would you let me see beneath your beautiful?  
****Would you let me see beneath your perfect?**

Here I am, tracing ink.

"What happened?" I murmur softly, not wanting to burst the tender moment transpiring between us.

She hesitates for a good full minute, soaking me in with those hypnotic hazel orbs, and it's as if she's taking a peek into my soul. Nobody has ever looked at me that way—it's unnerving—but there's a sort of solace swimming through those windows of opportunity, and a connection so foreign to me that I can't decipher. We're strangers—both of us—and yet, there's nobody else I feel so strongly for.

I don't know who she is.

Heck, I don't even know her name.

But in this time and place, nothing else seems to matter.

"I was fourteen." Her voice cracks on the last syllable and she clears her throat, determined not to showcase her emotions. Inhaling a shaky breath, she defiantly straightens her back and squares her shoulders; once again the epitome of a strong woman that I believe she is. "My dad left and I thought that it was my fault. My sister hated me, my mom wouldn't even look at me—what else was I supposed to think? Hit a rebellious streak then, had multiple piercings, bright pink hair, way too much eyeliner and mascara; the works. I flunked my tests, got into a shit load of trouble, and my mom didn't once cared, until one night I was escorted home by the cops."

**Take it off now, girl, take it off now, girl  
****I wanna see inside**

There is a short intermission where she takes another sip of alcohol, barely flinching at the foul taste, and I'm not sure if I can find another woman who takes scotch as well as this woman here right now. Instinct urges me to offer a well-rounded comment, but I'm never the best person for consolation or advice. People come to me for opinions, sure, but never for something so private. I run the liability of unintentionally spewing shit that'll only make me sound like an insensitive douche, so I do what I do best.

I don't say anything.

"My mom was furious," she continues, a nostalgic smile dancing on her glossy lips. "God, she wasn't just furious, she was disappointed, and every child knows that's even worse."

Diligently, I nod in reply, because I do know that from first-hand experience. In fact, I've lost track of just how many times my own dad had greeted me with a sigh of regret—wishing why he wasn't blessed with a better son than the one he has.

"That night, she packed my stuff in a duffel bag and kicked me out."

Fuck, that's harsh.

"I'm sorry—"

"Don't be," she cuts in, her face hardening at the slightest hint of sympathy. "I wandered the streets, sleeping on a park bench, and I just wanted everything to end, so I tried…"

"The scars on your wrist—"

"Didn't try hard enough," she shrugs with a nonchalance that shouldn't exist for someone who's talking about an attempted suicide. Such a dark place; it's hard to imagine it ever existed in a woman so divine. "My best friend, Rachel, she found me in time. Brought me to the hospital and took me into her home without question. She turned my life around. After a while, I didn't want to be reminded of my failures, so I hid those scars."

"Hence, that tattoo," I finish in a concluding statement.

"Hence?"

Oh, great; now she's going to think I'm a complete dork, or rather a pretentious linguistic rabble-rouser, which I'm not. "Well, I just, you know—"

"I think it's cute."

Quick, think of something smart.

"Yeah?"

**Would you let me see beneath your beautiful tonight?**

"Yeah."

* * *

_**Her**_

I probably shouldn't have—because the last thing I need right now is a complication—but I invite him up to my suite anyway. The reason behind it is vague, possibly a tad bit hazy from the scotch, and I realize all too soon as we're riding up the elevator that perhaps this isn't a good idea; this isn't who I am. Falling into bed with a guy I barely know—save for his name—isn't a normality in my life; it isn't me.

Yet, there's an undeniably alluring quality about him, the quirkiness that hides behind the vulnerability that he wears on his sleeve. He hasn't said much—hasn't tried to impress me with mellifluous nothings—and still in a crowd full of high-strung lawyers and millionaires, I had been drawn to his simplicity. Perhaps it's the handsome combination of innocent ruggedness and the boy-next-door charm—dirty blonde hair, attractively mussed with an air of carelessness, the ever-present lopsided half-smirk on his full mouth, and a telltale flush of slight inebriation.

**You let all the girls go  
****Makes you feel good, don't it?  
****Behind your Broadway show  
****I heard a boy say, "Please, don't hurt me"**

He keeps his intense gaze on me, wide and expressive, green as can be and somewhere from the back of my throat, I let out a gasping sigh as I feel the pad of his thumb glide over the shape of my lips. The tip of his nose brushes softly against mine, his warm breath misting over for a second, then two, and finally he leans in, kissing me with a gentleness that I've never experienced with a man. A bullet of pleasure shoots down the length of my spine, igniting a shiver that reaches to the heart of my femininity. The repercussion of that sole action alone punctures open pockets of feelings I never knew existed.

"Sam," I whisper as he softly strokes the underside of my jaw.

"You're so beautiful."

He isn't supposed to do that—uttering those soulful words like a prayer—but for the first time in a long while, I crack a long-forgotten smile. It feels foreign on my lips—feels wrong on my cracked features, as though I'm betraying a part of me—and still, I can't find it in myself to stop.

I don't know who he is.

Heck, I only know his name.

But in this time and place, nothing else seems to matter.

And fuck, that terrifies me.

I can't afford it. This bravery is as dangerous as his passion because in all honesty, I know that come morning, we'll have to go our separate ways.

**You've carried on so long  
****You couldn't stop if you tried it.  
****You've built your wall so high  
****That no one could climb it.  
****But I'm gonna try**

The door opens up in the nick of time—sparing me from further embarrassment—and we stumble out into the lushly carpeted hallway, too posh for a company-sponsored networking event, but who am I to complain?

"Hang on," I say before stopping and bending over to remove my painful pair of stilettos. "These torture devices are a bitch to walk in."

"I don't understand why women wear those if they're so uncomfortable, anyway," he chuckles before intertwining his fingers in mine.

"They make us feel pretty," I quip back ruefully.

"All the more you don't need them, then," he winks, gripping the sides of my hips to pull me against his hard front.

"Sweet talker."

And exactly the sort I should avoid, yet here I am.

I really am my mother's daughter; it's a tragedy.

Somehow or another, we make it into the suite without eliminating any articles of clothing, tripping and giggling through the doorway like a couple of high school drunks. It seems so simple—so easy—to pretend that for one night, I'm allowed the freedom to choose whom I am. A cold spot forms where his hand leaves to grapple around for the light switch, and the sudden panic that crashes over me resonates in an icy slap.

"Don't," I gasp in the darkness.

"What?"

"Leave it off."

For a splitting second, I fear his hesitation is an indication that the night is over, until his deep, sultry voice murmurs a syllable somewhere below my jaw. "Why?"

"You feel more when you can't see."

**Would you let me see beneath your beautiful?  
****Would you let me see beneath your perfect?**

Something snaps.

It could've been either one of us this time—lips crashing, mouths fusing—kissing in unchartered desperation that really shouldn't exist between two strangers. My fingers entangle themselves in his shaggy blonde hair; his tongue probing, entering and sweeping into each recess with a cadence so sexual, the last vestiges of reason dissolves into a pool of mush. He tastes of scotch—an uncanny reminiscence of youth and age—and yet, there are traces of something softer.

Something sweet.

Cinnamon.

My back hits a wall—possibly the door—even as he pulls me in closer, his grip tightening on my hips. A moan, a sigh, and another startling gasp—I can't fathom the differences between us anymore; him or me—but then he trails those strong, dexterous hands higher up the curve of my waist before tentatively cupping my breasts through my dress, teasing me in a way that's bordering on internal combustion.

"Sam…"

I free the buttons of his blazer, effectively shoving the unflattering piece of clothing off his frame. It lands on the floor with a thud and he mumbles incoherently about his cellphone, his voice muffled and slightly slurred by the alcohol, but otherwise doesn't seem to care. The shirt easily comes off next, and it's only as I'm blindly groping around for his belt buckle does my fingers trace the impeccable contours on his abdomen.

"Someone's been working out."

"You'll never know when you need to impress a gorgeous lady," he flirts, a playful smile brushing against my lips.

"Does that line ever work on you?"

"I don't know. I went to an all-boys boarding school."

I'm trying to decide if he's kidding, until he shoves the flimsy fabric off my shoulders, allowing it to drop heedlessly to the side, and subsequently shutting my thoughts when he dips his head and encloses one nipple into his mouth. A tremble courses down my spine as a whimper escapes from deep within my throat, spiraling down into an uncontrolled twister of pleasure.

"You need to work faster than that, Sam."

I feel his smirk on my skin. "For your sake or mine?"

"Does it matter?"

"Touché."

He assents to his task immediately; the clinking sound of his belt buckle, followed promptly by the quick unzipping of his slacks is enough indication that he's in as much a hurry as I am for some much-needed release. Thinking that he's taking me against the door, I'm surprised, however, when he cups my derriere and lifts me up. His gorging arousal presses tantalizingly against my aching center as he meshes our lips together once again.

**Take it off now, boy, take it off now, boy  
****I wanna see inside**

By some unforeseen miracle, he deposits me on the soft mattress. Levering above me, he pauses for a moment, his eyes seeking me out in the dark. He places his palm against the side of my cheek, cradling my face as his thumb makes soothing strokes against my heated flesh.

He is a gentleman, born and bred just right, and I'm sure his parents are proud of him—or maybe not. Sometimes, people with the nicest smiles tell the saddest stories.

"I know it's corny or whatever, but I have to ask—"

I quirk an eyebrow. "Did you learn this in boarding school too?"

Sam dips his head sheepishly. "I don't want you to think that I'm taking advantage of you."

"If my memory serves me right, I invited you up here, didn't I?"

"It's only polite to—"

"Don't."

There's a pregnant pause, and I wonder if he's usually this conflicted, so I decide to throw him a lifeline. Taking the other hand, I guide it between my thighs, where it brushes, feather-like, against the lace that houses my femininity. He sucks in a breath between his teeth at the contact.

"Get there faster, Sam."

He tears at the offending material, sliding it down my legs, and as soon as it reaches my ankles, I kick it away into the abyss of the room. And then he's kissing me again, his tongue plunging deeply before I feel his fingers mapping the way south and encountering my delta.

"You ready?" he husks, the velvety tip of his manhood now prodding precariously at my entrance.

Just this once.

"I'm not your girlfriend, Sam, quit asking," I grate out.

He silently caresses the dove on the underside of my wrist, a ghost of a touch.

Tracing ink.

**Would you let me see beneath your beautiful tonight, oh, tonight?**

With one swift thrust, he fills me whole.

* * *

**A/N:** The end! Now on to the stories that matter :P

Song used: "Beneath Your Beautiful" by Labrinth feat. Emeli Sandé


End file.
